Question 1.7

1.7 What led to your priestly vocation and your decision to enter the seminary?

If I look for the source of my priestly vocation, how can I help but see, like Saint John Paul II, that “it throbs in the Cenacle in Jerusalem”? From the Upper Room, during Jesus’ last supper with his disciples, “on the night when he was betrayed” (1 Cor 11:23), “the immense night of origins” and the night of this first celebration of the Eucharist, flows the lifeblood that feeds every vocation: the vocation of the apostles and their successors as well as that of every man. My priestly vocation is found in the first Eucharist, as is every priest’s. So I was set apart, called to serve God and the Church, from my mother’s womb. In each of my daily celebrations of the Eucharist, I hear resounding in my heart the words that Jesus spoke to the apostles, on the memorable day of the washing of their feet, the institution of the priesthood and of the Eucharist, as if those words had been spoken to me also: “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord; and you are right, for so I am. If I then, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have given you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you” (Jn 13:12-15). I am certain that on that night Jesus was thinking of me, too, and had already placed his hand on my head.

It was in the context of the daily Eucharist that Father Bracquemond, no doubt seeing my ardent desire to know God and probably impressed by my love of prayer and my faithful attendance at daily Mass, asked me if I wanted to enter the seminary. With the astonishment and spontaneity characteristic of children, I replied that I would very much like to, without the slightest idea of what I was committing myself to, for I had never left my little village and did not know anything about life in a seminary.

He explained to me that it was a house upheld by the prayers and affection of the entire Church. This place, he told me, would prepare me and other youths to become a priest like him. With this simple explanation, my joy at the thought of becoming a priest someday swelled my heart with both wonder and “madness”!

The priest asked me to talk about it with my parents, Alexandre and Claire, whom he knew very well.

I went to see Mother first, to tell her that I might perhaps be able to enter the seminary. She had no idea what the seminary was but was curious as to why I wanted to go there. I explained to her that it was about entering a special school that would prepare me to become a priest so as to be consecrated to God, like the Holy Ghost Fathers. … With her eyes wide open, she then told me that I must have lost my mind to say such a thing, or else I must not have understood the priest’s words. To my mother and the inhabitants of the village, all priests were necessarily white. … In fact, it seemed impossible to her that a black man could become a priest! Hence it was clear that I had misunderstood Father Marcel Bracquemond’s words. So she advised me to talk to my father about it, convinced that I had just said something extremely foolish and unrealistic.

That same day, I went out to find Father in the field, and he had the same reaction. … I tried to tell him that it was indeed Father Bracque-mond who had persuaded me that, yes, I could become a priest like him. With a smile that was both tender and mocking, Father held me close to his heart, as if to console me for his skepticism. He was certain that I was telling him about a dream I had had the previous night! My request seemed impossible to him, too: a black man cannot become a priest of the Catholic Church. This nonsensical idea, he thought, could only be the product of my childish naïveté. But I insisted that these were Father Bracquemond’s very own words. … So they decided to go and ask him to verify the authenticity of this story. He assured them that I had not lied and that he had in fact suggested to me the idea of becoming a priest and, first of all, entering the minor seminary to be trained! My parents were absolutely dumbfounded. That evening, by the light of the moon, they suggested that I leave for a year, showing that they had no idea how many years of study might be required at a seminary.

I was eleven and had just earned my certificate of primary studies. At the time, young seminarians from Guinea had to go to Ivory Coast for their formation. I was enthusiastic, proud, and happy, without knowing anything about the life awaiting me at the Saint Augustine Seminary in Bingerville.

As I left my parents, I could sense that the flow of time was changing. I noticed that my ties with Ourous were gradually breaking, while others would develop between the Lord and me, who possessed nothing but a young heart already enamored of him. I was my parents’ only child, and I understood that they were making a very difficult sacrifice. With their own hands, they made a small suitcase for me, holding some underwear and a few shirts, nothing more. The priests helped me to plan the trip, and one of them accompanied me to Labé, a small town 150 miles from Ourous, to take a truck that would bring me to Conakry. I had the opportunity to travel with another seminarian, Alphonse Sara Tylé, who had enrolled at Bingerville a short time before. He was for me a valuable and reassuring companion at the start of this extraordinary adventure.

I had never left my village; I knew nobody at all besides the inhabitants of Ourous. I felt lost in Conakry. Yet along this path that was leading us to God, I was always supported by the joy of entering the seminary and by the encouragement of Alphonse, who was older. I told myself that if he had left and then come back, it must be a rich experience. We took a large boat, the Foucault, on a four-day journey that brought us to Abidjan after sailing past the Loos Islands and along the coasts of Sierra Leone and Liberia. Obviously, I did not know how to swim. I was therefore very surprised to see such a vehicle, heavily loaded with merchandise and passengers, “driving” on the water. What a discovery! There were many travelers and a lot of luggage, and an exuberant mood prevailed. I embarked with a dozen Guinean seminarians whose names I will never forget: Adrien Tambassa, Pascal Lys, Maximin Bangoura, Richard Bangoura, Camille Camara, Alphonse Sara Tylé, Joseph Mami-dou, Yves Da Costa, and Jean-Marie Touré. I was the youngest. . .

We traveled in the hold, where the heat was suffocating. It was impossible to eat. The smell from the engines and the kitchens made us nauseated; the little greasy food that we were able to eat soon became food for the fish! Nothing would stay down. The only pleasant, special moments over the course of the four-day journey were during the hour of Holy Mass, celebrated by the ship’s chaplain in a chapel in the first-class section. In that atmosphere of luxury and well-being, free from the ship’s pitching and tossing, we wished that Mass would last for hours and hours. Unfortunately, once Mass was over, we went for a walk along the bridge for a few minutes, then returned to the hold, which had become a veritable inferno.

We arrived in the port of Abidjan feeling very tired. A car immediately brought us to the Saint Augustine Minor Seminary. After that difficult journey, the real adventure was beginning.